Page 115 of The Final Contract

“She’s going to be okay,” Stasia repeated, muffled into my shirt.

And for the first time since I saw her strapped to a pyre?—

I could breathe.

Amonth. That’s how long it’s been since I carried her out of the fire.

The first week was hospitals—IVs, oxygen, her thigh stitched shut, skin bandaged where ropes and glass bit deep. When they finally said she was stable enough to leave, I thought she’d want her penthouse.

Instead, her weak hand clutched mine, her voice glassy with drugs and exhaustion.“Can we go to your place?”

It gutted me, hearing that plea. She didn’t need to explain. Too much had gone down in her apartment—ghosts in every corner. But pride bloomed sharp in my chest. She felt safe in mine. She said it was warm there.

So I took her home.

For the next three weeks, I didn’t let her lift a finger. I waited on her day and night. Held her when she slept, which was most of the time at first. Watched her strength creep back inch by inch.

She’d laugh and swat me when I scooped her up instead of letting her hobble on crutches. I only did it a handful of times, but I never let her forget—I’d carry her anywhere if she asked.

Stasia brought the kids once. I turned the couch into a giant bed so they could pile under blankets for a movie. Daniel hung in the kitchen with me, talking woodwork while I made enough snacks to feed an army.

When she tried to read, the bandages on her palms made turning pages hell. So I read to her. Should’ve checked the titles—half were smut wrapped in innocent covers. I started highlighting passages, saving ideas for when her body could take what her eyes kept asking for.

One night, after a particularly filthy oral scene, she shoved the covers down, legs spread.“Killian, if you don’t eat my pussy right now, I may die of arousal.”

And fuck, I did. Careful. Tender. Slow—because every time I closed my eyes, I still saw her limp in my arms, soot-covered and silent. That memory kept my hands soft even when I wanted them rough.

Now—today—a storm batters the windows, rain slashing in sheets, thunder rolling heavy. We’ve been curled on the couch all day, drifting between old records, bad movies, and the dog-eared book I’ve been half-reading, half-mocking just to make her laugh.

I clear our dishes and sink down beside her.

“Come sit on your throne,” I tell her, patting my lap.

Her mouth curves. “Your smart mouth or your fat cock?”

“Take your pick,” I murmur, my hands already sliding to her hips. “Both are yours.”

She swings a leg over, straddling me. My palms find her ribs, her waist, the swell of her ass. I harden under her, and she gives me one slow roll of her hips—promise, threat, tease.

“You feeling up to tomorrow?” I ask, thumbs stroking circles under her shirt. “Touring the rest of the Irish territory.”

“You meanyourterritory,” she counters, eyes glittering. “Now that you sit on the Irish throne?”

“It’s always been my throne,” I tell her, voice low. “Just like you’ve always been mine… to watch, to guard, to own.”

She huffs a laugh. “Did I just trade one stalker for another?”

“Angel,” I drag my knuckles up her spine, “I’ve always stalked you. Just did it in plain sight—with no plans of ever letting you go.”

I peel her shirt off. Braless. Nipples tight in the cool air. I pinch, suck, bite until she gasps and bows into my mouth.

“Now you’ll be my Irish queen,” I growl, “my ruined little killer. My cockwhore, begging me to own you.”

“Why don’t you stop talking and show me how you’ll ruin me, big man?”

Challenge accepted.

“Strip,” I command.